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by capeswithhoods



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Blood, M/M, Needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/pseuds/capeswithhoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another broken promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

_I’ve already died once, Timmy, what’s the worst that could happen?_    
  
Jason coughs and there’s more blood on his sleeve than there was before, making him grimace.   
  
 _You could die again… and not come back…_    
  
 _I’ll be fine, Tim, I promise.  I’ll come back._    
  
And Jason really has to learn not  _not_  to make promises, because he’s not sure if he can keep that one, not this time.   
  
He has his hand pressed to his side, trying to stop the bleeding, but it’s pouring out over his hand, through his fingers and splattering on the ground as he limps away.  He’s been shot before, definitely, but this time is probably the worst, and he was caught off guard, didn’t have time to dodge it.   
  
All Jason can think about is getting back to Tim’s apartment, and  _fuck_ , it’s almost two in the morning and he had told Tim - _promised_  him - that he would be back by midnight.  At the  _latest_.   
  
Another broken promise.   
  
Laughter bubbles up before Jason can stop it, and he starts coughing again, wincing, but continuing on through the pain, pushing one foot in front of the other until the neighbourhoods shift and start looking more familiar.  _More like home._    
  
Jason’s practically dragging himself along by the time he gets to Tim’s apartment, and everything from his waist down on his right side is soaked and shiny, almost black with his blood. He knocks on the door once, not having the energy to reach up and grab the key that Tim puts on top of the doorjamb for him.   
  
When the door pulls open, Tim looks upset for a fraction of a second as he bites out, “I thought you said you were going to be back by midnight.”   
  
Jason stumbles forward into the apartment, into the light, and almost knocks into Tim.  He smiles apologetically at him, wincing and trying not to cough again.  “S-sorry, baby bird.”   
  
“Jason?   _Jason_ , what happened?!”  Tim is suddenly panicking, eyes glued to the ridiculous amount of blood covering his brother, and he pulls him inside, an arm around broad shoulders, guiding him gently to the couch.  “Sit down,” he insists, rushing away to close the door, rushing to get to the bathroom where he keeps his emergency kit, rushing back to Jason’s side.   
  
“You’re going to be fine,” Tim says quietly, hands fluttering over Jason’s clothes, trying to decide where to start.  He takes a pair of scissors to Jason’s shirt, cuts it open, peels it back from the wound, and he bites his lip when he hears his brother’s sharp intake of breath.  “Here.”  Tim holds out a bottle of whisky to Jason with shaking hands.  The cap is already off, and he tries to smile when Jason takes it and swallows a mouthful.   
  
Tim has a warm, damp cloth, and his teeth are worrying his lip again as he presses it gently to Jason’s side, trying to dab away some of the blood.  Jason hisses and jerks back, but his hand tightens around the neck of the bottle, which means that he’s still okay for now, which reassures Tim more than it should.  “This is why I tell you to be careful,” Tim says before he can stop himself, his voice strained and awkward.   
  
Jason doesn’t reply, just takes another swig of the burning alcohol and braces himself for more pain as Tim cleans off as much blood as he can.  He watches Tim’s face, the concentration etched into his features, and he wants to smile, but it takes too much effort.   
  
There’s the sting of a needle, and Jason grits his teeth, knowing that it’s the least of what is yet to come, and he doesn’t know why Tim is even bothering with anesthetic, because no amount of pain killer is going to make a gunshot wound hurt less.   
  
“This is going to hurt…” Tim warns, forceps in hand, and he brushes his free hand over Jason’s, still shaking, but reassuring.  “Jason… Jay.  Try not to move, okay?  I know it’ll be hard, but it’ll hurt… less.”  He gives Jason a sympathetic look before he presses the cool metal into the wound and Jason grunts but remains still, muscles tense and burning from the effort.   
  
It doesn’t take long at all before Tim has the bullet out, and Jason’s pale - more pale than he had been when he stumbled back to the apartment - and his hands are shaking so bad that he can barely hold on to his bottle, but he looks relieved, almost calm, and it worries Tim just a little bit.  “I’m not… I’m not as good at this as Alfred,” he says, sounding tired and something else Jason can’t quite place.  “But it’ll be good enough to let you heal properly.”   
  
Jason barely winces as the needle goes in and Tim starts to stitch him up.  He drinks some more, a little of the whisky dribbling down his chin, but he can’t be bothered to wipe it away.   
  
Tim is done fairly quickly, and then he’s layering gauze over the wound, taping it in place and mumbling something about changing the bandages in the morning.  Jason wants to tell Tim that it already  _is_  morning, but he just nods listlessly instead, watching as Tim packs everything up, making his living room tidy again, except for the giant blood stains Jason has left everywhere.   
  
When Tim returns to his side again, he looks exhausted, a frown pulling at his lips, and he sits down on the floor, leaning on the couch and watching Jason’s face closely.  “You promised you would be safe,” he whispers, and Jason hears it this time, the worry, the anxiety.   
  
“I’m not dead,” Jason says, and neither of them find it as funny as he meant it to be.   
  
“Jason…”  Tim pushes himself up onto his knees, turns and buries his face against Jason’s neck, arm curling around his chest and fingers bunching up the bloodied and torn remnants of his shirt.  “Jason, I- I don’t… God, if you… I…”   
  
“I know,” Jason says, and his voice cracks unpleasantly, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips because he  _does_  know, that’s why he kept his promise and came back home.


End file.
